A Tale of Acceptance, Surrender…and Ed Sheeran

I wrote the text of this post almost exactly a month ago but didn't post it 
because life just swept on, 
kept on coming and coming, all tangled and complicated,
curious and delightful, 
and I couldn't get back here to finish it up.
Which says something about the the month I've had!
Full of adventure, delight, novel writing, sorrow, worry, 
sleeplessness, novel writing, joy, novel writing, spontaneity and passion. 
But I still want to share these words, late as they are. 
They still mean something to me, all these days later. 
•

Before I begin my Tale,
I have to tell you something astonishing.

Something Mind-boggling and Wild. 

I have come to realise (and I suspect I've said this before, in other words and with other posts, but bear with me here because I need to say it again),

the more I accept, the happier I am.

I know—who'd have thunk it?!

It's crazily simple.

I've discovered that if you spend your life resisting LIFE (with all its awkwardness, chaos and surprise),

      if you choose to meet life events with frustration, resentment, anger, and complaint,

              your happiness decreases.


And yes, I know other people have figured this out already…!

Michael J. Fox, for one, captured this idea beautifully in his quote:

“My happiness grows in direct proportion to my acceptance, and in inverse proportion to my expectations.”

It's true.

The fewer expectations I have

(Like, Oh, this will be great! At least, I hope it will be great. Well, it will be great if x, y, and z happen. So, I'd like the path of Great to look like this…(x) and this…(y) and this…(z), thank you very much), 

and the less attached I am to a certain outcome

(Okay, I will be really happy if x, y and z happens. But I'll be bummed out if N happens, and I'll be really bummed if B happens. Also, I'll be miserable! with P, outraged! with M, and destroyed! with S, so please…let life be filled only with x's and y's and z's.)

the greater my joy is.

But what is joy?

What has joy become, for me?

At its most basic level, my joy is the kind that makes me smile. Sometimes it brings a spontaneous happy dance, a fizzy feeling in my chest. It might even bring singing.

But, sometimes the joy comes more quietly than that. It comes in the form of deep contentment. A sense of peace.

And most importantly, my joy doesn't hurt.

Come again? Joy…hurt? How can that be?

Well, joy hurts when you are so aware of how fleeting it is, you spend the whole time holding it tightly against your chest instead of letting it Be.

Joy hurts when it becomes more like catching than watching. You run with your butterfly net waving, desperately trapping all that flying colour and when it's caught, you try to pin it, keep it, bind it into books and frames.

Joy hurts when you want to freeze it so it doesn't end.

My joy used to make my chest ache. 

I used to spend most of a concert or a visit by the sea thinking, "This is so beautiful. But this won't last. Take a photograph, quick, quick, with your camera, with your mind, because soon it will be over."

I'd give myself special time, a day off when the kids were young, and when a friend asked about it, I'd find the things that went wrong and detail them. Sure, I'd paint the whole picture, show the good and the bad, but I'd focus on the bad; I wore it like a little coat over my heart.

I used to be disappointed if a life experience went differently to my Plans. Even if the new outcome was fun, filled with laughter and everyone around me seemed to have a good time, I'd see where I'd failed, or where others had failed, where the moment was Less than it "should" have been.

If result wasn't x or y or z, I often saw only the letters that weren't there, instead of the letters that were.

I could spend time worrying over and explaining the Why of this, but I don't need to, because that was Then. And this, of course, is Now. Somewhere, at some point, I made a choice to see things differently and Now began.

It came slowly.

It came steadily.

Now, it's (mostly!) here.

"It is what it is." 

This is my husband's constant mantra. It's a very wise mantra!

(And I should say, that as silly and goofy as my husband is, he's actually an incredibly sensible, solid person. He's become that cheesy thing people write songs and Hallmark cards about—my "rock.")

I have come to absorb these words so completely it's my mantra, too.

It is what it is. 

In other words:

The things I would like to change (in me, in society), and can change, I work on. 

The things I cannot change, I do my best to accept…at least I try to accept without becoming a miserable mess.

People do things I find difficult. People make choices I wouldn't. The world has muck in it: it's heavy, hard, impossible. Sometimes this gets me down.

But what rises always, is hope. I try to live the change I would like to see in the world, and that buoys me. I let kindness and compassion be my guide, and that keeps me steady.

And, as best I can, I try not to let my hopes, wants, or desires decide my emotional well being, or affect my mental health.

I tried life the other way, and it didn't work—sadness always seemed to stick and cling.

Now, I choose to simply BE. I do my best to be open to whatever comes and to accept whatever is. This might bring joy or sadness, and the great range of feeling in between, but doesn't change who I am.

Nothing clings to simply Being. "Being" is like duck feathers, don't you think?

The water beads and slides off, in rain or shine, puddle or pond. And no matter what, whatever the state of the water, the duck stays a duck. The water (soft or hail-hard, warm or needle-cold) doesn't change that.

Which brings me to Ed Sheeran. 

That is, 
The Tale of Acceptance, Surrender…and Ed Sheeran

(Of course it does. That makes total sense.)

Ed Sheeran is great. Like, really great and stuff, and I'm not just saying that because I'm a teenage girl, 40-something-year old woman.

I've liked his music for a while—mostly from watching videos of him playing live. The guy takes his guitar, a loop pedal, and two mikes, and makes incredible, intricate melodies from his voice and guitar alone. He turns his guitar into a bass drum, into a snare; he layers his voice into four part harmonies; he beat-boxes and sings jazz with the clearest, cleanest voice. It's dazzling, the things he does. Plus, he sings lyrics and tells stories that matter. And, from what I've seen, he's also a really nice guy. Which makes me like him even more.

I knew he was coming to Australia, to my town; I also knew I couldn't afford to see him. Over the past few months, I'd think, 'Hang it, I'll just go.' Three times, I logged onto the ticket server thingy only to change my mind at the last minute.

I said to myself, 'You can't afford to go. And your husband isn't even that into Ed Sheeran, so you wouldn't have a date. So it's decided. You aren't going. You can accept this. You can watch him on Youtube; it's no big deal.'

But I kept thinking about it. The concert. In my town. Coming.


On the morning of the concert I thought, 'Well, I sure would like to go see Ed Sheeran.'

I thought, 'But you're not going. And it's sold out. And you can't afford it. And that's okay.'

I thought, 'Yes. That is okay. But I sure would like to go see Ed Sheeran.'

I thought, 'Remember you don't have the money. And you wouldn't have a date. And that's okay.'

And I thought, 'Yes. But I sure would like to go see Ed Sheeran.'

And so on!


At some point in the day, though, a new thought came into my mind. It was clear and distinct. It came with the quietest voice.

It said:

If you are meant to go, you will. You either will, or you won't. 

Just surrender. 

It will be what it will be.


Huh…
Interesting!

I've never exactly been a "meant to be" kind of person. I've always thought that was something other people Said.

Did I believe it? Do I have the beliefs and particular faith to support this kind of thinking? Well, I do… and I don't…and I do, in my own way…and…

the things I believe are actually deeply felt, personal, intensely spiritual, beautiful things. And all that's for another post, perhaps a different conversation, or maybe it's actually private?

All I know is, I thought the thought…or the thought came into my head…

and I surrendered.

Not the kind of surrender where you give up—where you wave your white flag hopelessly, in tears.

Rather, the kind where you wholly accept.

It felt really, really peaceful.


So, cut forward about 9 hours to that night—the night of the concert. It was seven o'clock, and I was making dinner. My husband walked in the door from work, and within five minutes gave me the news.

The t-shirt I always design for the big Megaband concert he organises every year, the one over 100 kids wear…well, I would be paid for designing it this year. I would be paid. Like, in real money!

Enough money to go see Ed Sheeran.

No way.

Yes!!

Yes!!!

But the next hurdle came quickly:

You see, I had no ticket.

And the concert was sold out. (Except for the nose-bleed seats with completely obstructed views—which would mean I'd be paying to not watch a dot on a stage moving about behind an enormous pole).

So I said to myself, 'Well, I'm going to give it a try. By myself. I'll see if someone is standing outside selling a ticket, for a reasonable seat. If there isn't a ticket, I'll just come home.'

And I thought, 'And that will be okay. I will have tried. It will be what it will be.'

I showered and zipped off, through the rain and into the city.

Where there was no parking! And time was running out!

The concert was starting in an hour and I had no money. I found a 15-minute parking spot outside the stadium—enough time to go to the ATM and buy a ticket, if a ticket was waiting to be bought.

I stood in the rain, in a queue for the money machine. The line was soooooo long, like a thousand people long. (Not really, but close)

I thought, 'This isn't going to work. This is a sold-out concert. No-one is selling tickets outside in the rain. No-one is selling tickets, full-stop. Hmmm. Perhaps I should go home.'

The quiet, determined voice from earlier popped into my head again.

Wait, it said. You haven't seen this out yet. Wait.


Huh. All right, "Persistent Voice of Acceptance and Surrender": I'll wait.

I stood in line and finally got my money.

Then I stood outside the stadium in my hat and snug coat as the rain came down, comfortably warm and not very wet, watching to see if a person might try to sell a ticket they didn't want. I stood there for five minutes. My parking time was almost out.

I thought. 'Ah. So that's how it will be. No concert tonight.'

It was as though I was watching myself from far away—a woman waiting calmly in the rain, accepting whatever outcome might happen, truly at peace. How funny, thought my watching self. You've taken yourself right to the heart of wanting; you've walked right up to it, and you are okay. This doesn't hurt. You aren't anxious. What a change.

And I thought, 'Right-o, I'll go home.'

The quiet voice came again.

It said, You haven't tried the Box Office yet.

'But those are the Obstructed View, Nose-bleed seats,' I thought. 'I can't justify spending this kind of money on those kind of seats!' (Because I might be a fan, but I'm a sensible, 40-something-year-old woman who knows about the cost of groceries, and books, and shoes…the curse of being a Grown-Up).

The quiet voice said, You haven't tried, though. Just try.

So in I went.

Me to the box office girl: "Hi, just wondering if you have any seats left?"

"Yes!" she said cheerfully, "We do!"

"Ah…are those the full-on nose bleed seats with the obstructed view?" (Yes, I really asked that question!)

"No. Actually they aren't," she said, smiling. "We've just released some new seats, down at the front."

Like at the front front? Like, first row of the seats? Like, directly beside the stage?

YES.

No way.

YES!

I handed my money. I got the ticket. I gave the girl the biggest grin.

And, Weeeeee! I went leaping back to my little car.

So. Exciting!

With only half an hour to go, I drove through the rain, drove around looking for a park. Of course, just before a big concert in a small city, there was nothing.

I thought, 'Huh. Maybe I should park kind of far away and catch a cab? Maybe I should drive quickly home and get my family to take me in?'

And I thought, 'This will be interesting,' I thought, 'if I miss the concert because I can't find a place to park.'

The quiet voice came again.

It said, It will be okay. Just keep driving.

It was like having a spirit sitting beside me, in lotus position, floating. Or sitting on my shoulder, watching the road. Or curled like a wise cat in my lap, his paws tucked under.

Or something inside my own self, speaking sense.

Or something else entirely.

I kept on driving. I turned right and saw, waiting there, a parking spot. Two blocks from the stadium. An easy, five-minute walk.

Everything clicked into place.


Off I went to the concert, by myself.

Sat in the front row, just to the side of the stage.

Watched Ed Sheeran do wild and fantastic things with his guitar, his voice, two mikes and a loop pedal.

Yelled and carried on with all the teenage girls.

Sang along, harmonised, laughed at Ed's stories.

Gave myself to the moment without reservation.

My happiness didn't hurt; it felt, simply, like happiness.

I didn't think about the concert ending.

All I did was BE.


And along with simply BEING came:

Deep contentment.

Amazing peace.

Beautiful, in-the-moment, tip-to-toe, joy.

I was so glad to be there.



Thank you, Quiet Voice of Acceptance and Surrender.

Thank you, Spirit…within and without.

I am so glad I found you.

I am so glad you found me.

This, is what it means to live

The room is dark, but for the lights on the faces of the players,

on their hands as their fingers move
over the keys of the accordion,
the clarinet
the strings of the violin
the skin of the drum.

Their eyes are closed

as the notes lift, into
a tumble a line a swirl,

as the notes make stories,
vivid things I see with my own eyes shut.


I sit
hands folded in my lap
and see

a figure on a dock looking over wild water
the water slate-blue and wind-whipped
no boats or ships in sight

the music changes
and I see

a man struggling up a hill alone
through white-swirled snow that makes
his old cloak flap
he is a cloud, walking

the music changes
and I see

three girls spinning
skirts fanning out in circles
bright red, yellow, stripes of blue

the sight becomes sound becomes the music becomes one

And now my body moves
not consciously
not intentionally
not the toe-tapping, foot-stomping, body-shaking groove of me
rising to dance or doing a jig in my chair
but the here-and-not-here of me,

soul moving.

I've been taken
it seems
in this space,
through and to a dream;

my body follows the spirit it
hears
and I am not here
but floating.

I am in the note
the song

the beat
the drum.

I am in the mist outside
in the sea just below the hill
in the wet sky as it leans
down to kiss the grass.


This.

I see,
suddenly

know,
vividly and feel,

to the deep to the light to the bone,

this, this,
this!

Is what
it means (it must),
to live.

I'll be back…soon!

Oh, I have so much to say, I really do, but I don't know how to find the time to say it—do you think we could ask the Powers That Be for more time?

I sure hope you are all well out there…I hope your days have been a whole soup-pot full of goodness. I haven't been here in ages, but it's not for lack of wanting. I think I have written a blog-post in my head every single day.

In the meantime, we have been so well here, what with all the learning and the doing and the getting to places and being really very busy since the 'school' year started again, and the being happy.

We're walking on the beach (lots). We're cuddling cats (even more lots). We are writing and juggling and playing music and doing science and seeing friends and learning about Everything and Anything and writing some more (so many stories!) and eating scrumptious food (lots of it—these kids just keep on growing) and running workshops (at least I am—three writers workshops now!) and grabbing life and kissing it. I am even back to writing my novel. There. I said it. I am. It feels…beautiful.

And my girl was sick, but fell deeply asleep last night as I was sponging her fever away, and that was a gift. She slept for 9 hours straight after that. I kept reaching out in the bed and touching her skin with my hand to see how she was. Sometime in the night her fever broke, her skin was cool…and so I slept.

Life has been like that, this last month. I've stayed close by my kids. We have spent every second, it seems, together, and we keep our hands on each other all the time, to see how we are.

There's a lot of love going 'round in this house.

But not much blog writing!

While I've been away, lots of spammers have stopped by to say hello.

Here's a note from one of them:

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Isn't that a lovely note? Thank you, quick cash loans website!

There were other notes like this, but this one was my favourite.

I can't wait to post again here, a nice long blog post filled with photos. I can't wait to share lots of news. I can't wait to say hello.

I can't wait for the next moment and the next. I wonder what each one might bring…?

after the storm

the thunderclap was so loud that
we, standing
under the verandah to see the
rain slam down in sheets,
jumped a mile
and ran
back inside
scaring the cats and dog
who were perhaps already
scared
by thunder louder than any thunder in the history of
thunder

if there is a such a thing.

if such a history exists it isn't in a book somewhere but
waits
written in memory alone

for all or one of us to
pull out some day far in the
future or tomorrow
and say
remember that storm? the one where
we jumped and ran and laughed
so hard? where we were scared a little but
at least we
were together?

and after the storm
which rolled and
rolled

after we waited in light so
dim it felt like night

after the sun came back and power too,
all the lamps and clocks
dancing on with a click

I walked through the
garden

and under a just-washed sky

to see and take note of the wet
and the life,

to look at
all the small bright things.

tell-tale signs

You know you're at a folk festival when…

• so many people have beards this long you stop counting them after you get to 10.

(At first I thought I'd keep a tally of super-long beards, medium-length beards, and plain old scruffy faces… 

but then I forgot and watched the music instead :) )

• People fill a hall to hear a man with a voice and a loop pedal sing about water bears.

(…and did you know water bears can survive in a vacuum? 

…and can survive a hundred years without food or water? Fascinating!)

(…and here's a video clip of the singer, Mal Webb singing about water bears at another festival—very silly!
This song comes with the tiniest of language warnings. My girl didn't even notice it, which never happens.)

• The program for a single day 

is two pages long, 

is this packed, 

and lists a Woodie Guthrie theme concert.

• Chinese Lion Dancers 

steal your friend's shoe

(just because they can).

• Stalls sell everything 

from henna tattoos to hare krishna vegetarian curries

to sno-cones.

(my girl's first sno-cone!…and last. Too sweet and too melty!)

• The performance sheds are decorated with chandeliers.

• A woman from this band plays violin while sitting on a man's shoulders. Wild!

credit

• Bagpipes happen.

• A man plays with a ball on the grass

and makes it look super cool…

(…which my boy would have loved to see, but this day was the beginning of 

a week-long jazz camp adventure, with his dad. Very cool.)

• Hay is everywhere.

• You see a whole lot of violins…

• …  and even more accordions!

Most of all, 

you see a lot of happy faces like these

and you're awfully glad you came. 

:)

in this we are all connected

Our ginger cat made the strangest sound tonight…while squatting over our brand new day-to-a-page diary where we've just begun to write the many, many things we have planned for the coming homeschool year. You see, Term One is about to begin, and all the kids' classes are about to get going. Circus class and Band and Piano Lessons and Tennis are in their flashy shorts, some jogging in place, packed with the others at the starting line, their toes against the paint. People in this house are getting pretty excited about that.

"Woah," we said. (About the cat noise, I mean, not about the classes, although I know they will be fun)

Then, "Ohhh…"

And we whisked the cat to the floor and watched as he upchucked all over the tiles.

Afterwards, he repositioned himself and went for Puke Number Two. And then he just kind of sat there, in that post-upchuck daze we all know (don't we?) and really, really don't like.

I said, "Huh. I bet you feel better now, buddy."

I am sure he did, poor guy. But then…my husband and I looked at each other. This was the special moment one of us got to put their hand up. Who'd be so brave?

Well, my husband, the hero, went for it. He grabbed the paper towels, and with a swift and practiced motion, began to unroll great reams of paper for the Mighty Clean-Up.

But! Then!

With the swift and practiced thinking of a lifelong environmentalist, I said, "Hey. Why don't we just use the dustpan instead? And maybe the litter scooper thingy? That should work."

(In real life, I called it the Poop Scooper. But I wouldn't like to cheapen this blog by calling it that here).

My husband was fine with that. With a swift and relieved motion, he put the paper towels down, stepped (far) away from the puke, and let me do my Save The Planet One Paper Towel At A Time thing.

It was so easy, two swipes with the scooper and dustpan, and a quick scrub of the floor with dishwashing detergent and the job was done. Voila. And the roll of paper towels lived to see another day.

Which got me to thinking!


About how easy it is to grab a paper towel to wipe a mess instead of a sponge you'd then have to rinse or a dustpan you'd have to go and clean.

How easy it is to throw wet clothes in a dryer instead of stepping out to the line to dry them in the sun.

How disposable things are, mobile phones and television sets, junky toys and all those bottles, cans, jars and plastic tubs. How easy they are to buy, and replace, and buy, and replace.


And that got me to thinking some more…

about where everything, all these Things, come from. And how we are connected to them—sometimes only distantly, invisibly, but still and always, connected.


How a paper towel comes from a tree, a lot like that one on the street or in your back yard or the one in the Amazon Basin that helps you breathe.

How the sun is always there, constantly shooting down heat like a dare devil, blasting wild uv rays on our skin, and absorbing moisture magically from clothes without a second thought. How easy it is to use this Great Ball of Fire, the thing that gives us sunshine and makes the daisies bloom.

How someone made that phone, the phone we all seem to carry these days. In a factory, somewhere, someone with worries and wants put the pieces together.

And someone operating a machine somewhere created that glass bottle.

And that bottle, well, it came in part from sand, shaped and turned somehow into glass…

and that sand came from years of shells or rocks, rubbing against one another in a simple silence.

And we walk on beaches and trust those beaches will always have that sand, those timeless tiny rocks, that, if you're lucky (and the sand is fine and white enough), will squeak under your toes as you walk.


It is all connected.

Bottles and sand…connected.

Cute kittens and cute lambs… connected.

Canned tuna and those mega-fishing trawlers…connected.

Plastic and pollution…connected.

Trees and paper…connected.

Choices and consequences…connected.


Sometimes it makes you want to sit down and take a moment,

once you see the tiny lines,

the spider threads that interweave between you and me and him and her and it and that and those.

When you see how each action, each choice you make contributes to that web.

It's dazzling. And it's beautiful.

And it's scary and it's sad.


But once you see,

it's hopeful, too.


Because the Earth is an extraordinary, living thing…and we are part of the Earth.

We are the living web. The trees and lambs and daisies and rocks and the vibrating worries of a woman on the other side of the world?

Connected, incredibly to you, as you sit here, reading these words. And to me, as I write them and breathe the air we share.

The Juggler

My son adores juggling, so I thought I'd post some videos! Grab your popcorn, sit back and enjoy!

In this video, taken in June last year, he had only been juggling for two months…



Here he is, a month later, juggling to jazz master Michael Brecker…



Here is a routine he worked on for a performance at the end of the year. Look at all that hair!



And, now he is working on playing jazz piano while juggling!



Thank you, and I hope you enjoyed the show! :)

UPDATE! 

This just in!

A video taken just minutes ago… drums meets kazoo meets juggling meets jazz. Very cool :)